A Crack in the Immutable
by GraciaJavert
Summary: Indiana Jones finds himself imprisoned after being implicated in a Soviet conspiracy. Struggling to prove his innocence, he enters into a reluctant alliance with fellow detainee Irina Spalko. KOTCS AU. Eventual Indy/ Irina.
1. Chapter 1

The visitor arrived at half past two, knocking with restrained politeness on the thick oak door. At the sound, Indiana Jones tossed his book aside and stood, rubbing his temples wearily. Halfheartedly smoothing his rumpled clothes, he slid his glasses into his pocket and tugged the door open. Before he could say a word, a rain-drenched figure had forced its way past him and into the foyer, muttering apologies. Indy pivoted to give the man a withering look, and stepped forward to block his way.

"What's this all about?"

The man put up his hands, looking Jones in the eye. Indy took in his bland features, the tailored black suit half-concealed beneath his dripping coat. One eye was twitching; he was clearly trying to hide his unease. _CIA or FBI_, Indy thought to himself, feeling a mix of curiosity and annoyance. _I wonder what he wants? With that twitch, he's not exactly the ideal agent_—

"Once again, Dr. Jones, I do apologize." The man shifted a little from foot to foot. "I have come on the behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We have a…sensitive matter to discuss with you." He slowly lowered a hand, extracting a slim leather wallet from his coat pocket. He handed it to Jones. "My credentials are inside. Now if you will come with me-"

"Wait just a second. Leave, now?"

"Yes, Dr. Jones. They warned me that you might not be willing to comply. However, I assure you that resistance would be a very bad idea." The slight quiver in his voice undermined the threatening quality of the statement; Indy almost chuckled. Instead, he curled his lips into a half grin and leaned against the wall.

"I'm a tenured professor – I can't just pick up and go without making arrangements. Besides, I'm supposed to leave for the Yucatan next week…"

"Your trip is the reason that we wish to speak with you."

"Why can't you just talk to me here? I'm all ears!" Indy cocked his head.

"It is a sensitive problem, as I said. Highly confidential. As the matter concerns your…personal safety, you would be wise to come along."

"I can take care of my own enemies…" Even so, Jones felt a creeping sense of unease. _It's better to be prepared, I suppose. I hate bad surprises. _He looked down at his hand, still clutching the billfold.

"…But, I guess I'll go with you. No reason to make trouble. Just let me gather a few things-"

As he turned to leave, Indy heard a faint metallic click. He whipped his head around to see the man level a small handgun at his head.

"Come now, Dr. Jones."

Indy blinked, and shrugged. "As you wish."

* * *

The agent had bundled Indy into a nondescript car, parked on the street. The windows were tinted, and as Indy had settled into the back seat, the man had tied a blindfold securely around his head. "Feel lucky that we decided not to drug you," the man had muttered, motioning for Indy to keep his head down.

Now, Jones had been confined in the car for several hours, listening to the patter of rain on the roof. The air was stuffy, and he could feel a stiffness creeping into his limbs. He considered trying to steal a glance out the window, but decided that it didn't matter. This whole affair would be cleared up presently, with little trouble. At least, he hoped so. _These people are on my side, right? Nothing to worry about…_ Still, he felt a nagging nervousness. As the vehicle began to slow, he breathed a sigh of relief. The agent spoke from the driver's seat.

"We will arrive presently."

Indy felt the car swing into a sharp turn, then suddenly stop. A moment later, his door opened. Still blindfolded, Indy was dragged out into the pouring rain, wincing at the soreness in his limbs. A moment later, he passed through what he assumed to be a doorway. He suddenly felt his stomach drop; Indy realized that he was in an elevator, headed downward. It continued descending for what felt like an eternity, then came to a jolting halt. Indy stumbled forward as the blindfold was removed from his eyes.

"Dr. Jones." Indy cast his eyes warily around the room, a bare, bunker-like chamber walled in concrete. In the center sat a folding table and four aluminum chairs. At the back wall, a door stood open. Indy glanced to the side, realized that his escort had already disappeared. From the doorway, an unfamiliar figure stepped into the light. Broad-shouldered and bespectacled, with immaculately styled dark hair, the man greeted Indy with a haughty jerk of his chin.

"Sit down - we have much to discuss."

* * *

Colonel-Doctor Irina Spalko leaned against the cell's wall, arms crossed. The retreating footsteps of the guard grew faint; she sighed, relaxing a bit. Her body still buzzed with pain, from the "questioning" she had undergone the day before. They had, apparently, taken offense to her complete lack of cooperation; nonetheless, she would continue to resist them. Willfully ignoring the chill of the concrete floor against her bare feet, she surveyed her new living space.

A sheetless mattress covered in sturdy blue plastic was pressed up against one wall. In the corner opposite were a sink and toilet, thoroughly bolted down. A single lightbulb filled the cell with vague, yellow light. Spalko had the feeling that she was far underground; the space was windowless, cold, and unnaturally still. If her supposition was correct, escape would prove difficult.

As her gaze flickered back to the pallet, she stepped forward. Stooping, she jabbed it with one finger and shrugged. Serviceable. The motion, however, redirected Spalko's attention to her injuries. The ribs on her left side burned, possibly broken, and there was the metallic warmth of blood in her mouth.

A sudden surge of dizziness swept over her. She grimaced and eased herself onto the mattress, the crinkle of plastic thunderous in her ears. She shifted, struggling to find a comfortable position. As she let her eyes fall shut, she heard the faraway slam of a door, and several sets of footsteps echoed down the corridor. Irina was beyond caring; she paid the noises no attention.

The failure of her mission, however, still troubled her. En route to Mexico, she had been intercepted while attempting to board a flight to the Yucatan. Multiple escape efforts had proved fruitless. Now, she found herself detained in a secret, maximum-security facility, unable to inform her superiors of what had come to pass. Henry Jones, Jr. was no doubt preparing for his trip to southern Mexico, blissfully unaware of the trap he had nearly fallen into. The Roswell specimen remained housed in a dusty warehouse, unstudied, unexploited. And the American government had an invaluable new intelligence source, if she could only be convinced to talk.

Spalko saw clearly the danger of her situation. If they managed to break her resolve, a significant amount of classified information would come into their possession. It followed, then, that they would use any means necessary to wear away at her determination to remain silent. Already, she had endured a significant amount of mistreatment. No matter. Spalko had received extensive training on the topic of resisting interrogation; they would almost certainly be unsuccessful in breaking her will. Still, it would be prudent to flee as soon as possible.

Spalko opened her eyes and sat up, frustrated. This feeling was tempered, however, by a strong inkling that something significant was about to occur. Intuitive by nature, Irina felt a certain tension in the air, an electricity that left her exhilarated. Whether it was an opportunity to escape, or something else, she wasn't sure. A nervous excitement was stirring within her, setting her on edge. She licked her lips and, trying to ignore the pain, pulled her knees to her chest, resting her head against the wall. Then she sat still, waiting for something to happen.

* * *

The burly agent scowled at Jones, leaning forward in his seat. "You expect me to believe that you had…_no idea_ what was going to happen?"

"Yeah, actually. An old war buddy and I were meeting up with a team of researchers to investigate some Mayan ruins. We did hire security; the entire area is politically unstable-"

"This friend of yours…George McHale, is that correct?"

"Yes," Indy said dryly, "I hope you've warned him, as well."

"No need." The agent's brow lifted. "He's in league with the plotters."

"Impossible. Mac would never betray me…" Indy slapped a hand down on the table, exasperated.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Jones." The man's voice dripped insincerity; he slowly opened a file on the table before him, extracting a neatly typed report. He held it in front of Indy's face for a moment; the heading _in re: George McHale_ was clearly visible at the top. "Our sources have confirmed that Colonel George McHale is currently working for the K.G.B. He gambles heavily, as I am sure you know…"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

The man held up an impatient finger. "…And, after falling deeply into debt, he sold his services to the Russians. For reasons that we will, ah, know presently, you had been deemed useful by certain Soviet agents. Thus, they decided to take you into custody."

"But _you_ beat them to it." Jones gave a world-weary sigh. "I'm still not buying this story. What do you mean, 'know presently'?"

"We have detained one of the conspirators."

Indy blinked, surprised. He had been reasonably sure that this whole affair was a mix-up, the result of faulty intelligence or bureaucratic overreaction. Now, he wasn't so certain. He didn't want to think badly of Mac; the middle-aged Brit had his vices, but he would never sell out a friend. Indy stared at the tabletop, lost in thought. He reached absently for his glasses, found them gone. Ah, yes. They had taken them from him when he was searched. At that moment, the irrationality of the situation hit Indy; he lifted his head to glower at the agent.

"I don't have time for this idiocy. Let me go home."

"I'm afraid that's impossible. Actually, your association with McHale makes your personal activities suspicious. Your lack of concern and cooperation also troubles me." His eyes met Jones. "Were they really going to kidnap you? Or was there some sort of rendezvous planned-"

"That's nonsense, and you know it."

The man shrugged. "Until we have obtained definitive answers, you will remain here. Before I show you to your new quarters, however, there is someone I would like you to meet."

"The Soviet agent?"

He nodded, lips stretching into a mirthless smile, and stood.

* * *

As he was conducted down a dim, nondescript hallway, Indy's thoughts raced. He knew they would be looking for a reaction, some sign that he was acquainted with the conspirator. But whoever the man was, Indy certainly wouldn't know him. Jones had connections in some very odd places; none, however, were within the K.G.B. Squaring his shoulders, Indy focused on the test before him.

Soon, they entered into a cell block, so cold that Indy could see his breath in the air. The corridor was lined with doors of reinforced steel. A few yards away, two guards leaned against the wall, muttering to each other. At the sound of footsteps, they snapped to attention.

"What is it, Colonel Smith?" The one who spoke was thin, and stood with a stooped posture.

"We want to visit the prisoner."

"Yessir." The other guard produced a ring of keys and turned to a door on the left, bolted sturdily.

As the two guards struggled with the door, Smith remained silent. Indy gave the agent a sideways glance.

"Smith, huh?"

Finally, the door swung open and Smith stepped forward, motioning for Jones to follow. Ducking into the cell, Indy squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. When they did, he nearly gasped in surprise.

"Well…" The woman glanced at them from where she sat, perched on a flimsy pallet. She was dressed in faded prison garb; short black hair, matted and dirty, was cropped at her chin. The unnatural stiffness of her posture suggested injury. With dismay, Indy noticed the faint shadow of a bruise across her cheekbone, the half-healed laceration just below her eye. She'd obviously been treated with less courtesy than Indy. As the professor prepared to speak, Smith stepped forward, prodding the woman with his boot.

"The prisoner will stand." His tone was icy.

Instead of flinching back, the woman lifted her chin haughtily, giving Smith an openly reproachful glance. She had started to answer when her eyes lit on Jones. There was a momentary flash of surprised curiosity; then she dropped her gaze, speaking quickly.

"Can you not be civil, Colonel Smith?"

The agent had noted her brief reaction to Jones' presence, and he capitalized on it. "You recognize Dr. Jones, then."

She shook her head and leaned casually against the wall. "No. This man is unfamiliar to me." The words were pronounced with a heavy accent.

Smith shook his head in displeasure. "Stubborn, as always. I see that I need help in getting you to cooperate." He made for the door, ducking his head out into the passage beyond.

"Guards!"

While his back was turned, Indy locked gazes with the woman.

_How do you know me?_ He mouthed the message, hoping she would understand. The chilliness in her eyes told him that she understood perfectly.

_If not Smith, why would I confide in you?_

The moment ended as the two guards entered, sliding through the door with weapons at ready. Smith smiled sourly. "Help the prisoner to her feet."

She didn't struggle as a guard pulled her roughly upwards; the second guard drew his gun, providing cover. Once finished, the man drew back his hand, intending to strike her. Lightning fast, her fingers closed around his wrist, and she threw a roundhouse punch, catching his cheek. As he gasped in pain, the woman shoved him aside and darted forward. The gun-wielding guard was caught by surprise; he hastily raised his weapon, too late to block the kick she delivered to his jaw. His head snapped back, and he blindly swung the gun around, grazing her forehead. She stumbled, turned, and dove for the door.

The first guard had recovered, and he stepped in front of her, drawing his own gun. The woman froze; finding herself trapped, she raised her hands in reluctant surrender. Smith clapped his hands, drawing her attention.

"You will pay for that…foolish display."

She didn't bother to answer, one eye still glued to the gun.

He looked around. "Guards?"

Smith glanced back at Indy, who had been watching the altercation warily, hands in pockets. Now, Jones plastered an unconcerned expression on his face. As one guard clouted the prisoner with the butt of his gun, Smith watched Indy carefully. He didn't blink, even when the woman collapsed, throwing her arms over her head protectively. She didn't attempt to fight back, likely realizing that she was outnumbered.

Minutes later, Smith appeared to grow frustrated. He motioned the men away and stepped forward, crouching down beside the woman.

"Do you regret your resistance yet?" he asked sharply. She frowned, fingers going to the gash across her forehead, now bleeding profusely. Her eyes flashed with anger. Smith scowled at her for a moment, deliberating, then shrugged.

"We'll move on."

The agent stood, carefully straightening his clothing. Pausing for a moment, he adjusted his glasses thoughtfully, face impassive. Then:

"I have changed my plans." His tone was decisive.

"What plans?" Indy's voice was even, as if he hadn't just witnessed a vicious beating. Inside, however, he was unsettled. He felt a tad guilty, although the pragmatist in him was quick to voice what would've happened if he had tried to intervene. Besides, he reasoned, the nameless woman was a Soviet agent. She had received what she deserved. _Plenty of time to think this over later_, he told himself conciliatorily.

Smith cleared his throat, and gestured to the woman. "You two are cellmates."

"Great."


	2. Chapter 2

Colonel Paul Smith strode heavily down the hallway, face set into a tense scowl. Before leaving the cell, he had ordered a pallet to be brought for Jones, and had instructed the guards to fetch him something to eat. He had also assigned additional sentries to the cell block, with Jones' reputation for belligerence in mind.

As Smith navigated the tortuous passages, he focused his thoughts on strategy. He had been genuinely surprised by Jones' apathetic reaction to the beating; Smith's understanding of the issues in question was quickly unraveling. He had assigned Jones to Spalko's cell hoping that he would eventually betray their association; Jones was implicated, he was sure of it. The entire matter made no sense otherwise. With Spalko's continued reticence, the professor had become a potentially crucial informant. But if he had nothing to share, Smith was back to square one.

Given that this wasn't an official assignment, Smith would receive no additional help. His superiors hoped to glean useful intelligence from this matter; nonetheless, they would not sanction an investigation that so blatantly violated international law. Officially, this facility didn't exist; no prisoners were detained, no threat was being investigated. Smith himself was on a leave of absence, ostensibly for health reasons.

The agent knew that he walked a fine line. He needed to satisfy his bosses' demands; as long as he was discreet, they would close their eyes to any illegalities. They expected him to flaunt conventions, but took no responsibility for issuing such orders. Without a doubt, they would denounce him if this affair ever came to light.

Smith stroked his cleft chin thoughtfully. Sometimes, he found himself missing the war years, when ethical boundaries had been more clearly delineated. Still, he was a patriot; he would do as his country asked, without question. The responsibility for this mess lay with the United States, not him. He was merely a cog in a larger machine.

* * *

Curled up on her mattress, Spalko scrutinized Indy with a wary curiosity. He was slouched comfortably on his own mattress, left arm flung over his eyes as if to block the light. His face, weathered and lined, wore a slight frown. He tapped his fingers absently on the floor, the only indication that he was, in fact, awake.

"Dr. Jones, correct?" she asked brusquely. She did, of course, know exactly who he was. He had been handpicked by Spalko to aid in her mission; his unique background had made him the ideal candidate to secure the Roswell specimen. Nevertheless, she chose to feign ignorance.

"You should know, sweetheart." He let his arm fall, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. "You're my would-be kidnapper…"

"I am not interested in incriminating myself."

His frown deepened as he glanced at her. "No need to get sore. What am I supposed to call you, anyway?"

She had been anticipating this question. Deception would serve no purpose; the Americans had already learned her identity. Gingerly lifting a bruised arm, she extended her hand.

"Colonel-Doctor Irina Spalko."

Ignoring the gesture, he gazed at her distrustfully. In an aloof tone, he asked, "How long have you been here?"

"Why should I give you such information?" She dropped her hand, choosing to overlook his slight. If she was careful, Spalko might be able to negotiate an alliance with Jones. She didn't trust him in the slightest; any partnership between them would be tenuous. Still, an agreement to share information could prove advantageous. She was about to answer when Jones spoke.

"Because we have a common enemy." He glanced at her injuries meaningfully. "I'm willing to bargain…"

"As am I."

"How about a pact to share all relevant information?"

"And relevant would be defined as?"

"Anything useful-excluding potentially compromising details, of course."

She nodded slowly. "That is acceptable. As for your question, I arrived a few days ago."

"Huh. I'm not sure I need to ask, but how have you been treated? I want to know what's in store for me."

Her voice was bitter. "I was tortured for information. These Americans do not seem to have moral limits, as I always expected they would."

Jones grimaced. "Great."

They both started as the door banged open. A guard that Spalko didn't recognize ducked his head inside, and set a sturdy metal tray on the floor. Scanning the cell, he fixed his beady eyes on Jones.

"Food. Colonel Smith ordered it sent." He jerked his chin. "Better enjoy…this'll be your last meal in a long time." The door shut abruptly.

Irina closed her eyes, feeling suddenly hollow with hunger. She hadn't eaten since she had been captured, but asking him for a portion was out of the question. She refused to humble herself in that manner, especially before a man whose skills she respected. Irina made a conscious effort to ignore the rustling as he sat up, the sudden clang of metal on concrete. His footsteps as he returned to the pallet were agonizingly loud. Suddenly, he stopped.

"Dr. Spalko?"

"Yes?" She dragged her eyes open. Jones stood over her, holding the tray in both hands.

"Are you hungry?"

She uncurled herself, and sat up to lean against the wall. Studiously focusing her gaze on his face, she answered, "I thought that our alliance extended only to information."

"Consider it a gesture of good will."

She paused, then gave a stiff nod. "Accepted."

He handed her a slice of bread, relatively fresh but cut thin as paper. With unsteady hands, she tore it in half, placing one piece beside her mattress for later. The other she stuffed into her mouth, completely disregarding Jones' startled glance. She chewed it slowly, conscious of making it last.

Across the cell, Jones blinked at her. He had kept a dish of stew for himself, and was consuming it hungrily. Once finished, he put the empty vessel back on the tray. With a sound of not-quite satisfaction, he pushed the tray away, running a hand over his mouth.

Spalko knew that he would expect gratitude; she felt irritated and vaguely humiliated at the prospect. Jones still stared at her in puzzlement, pursing his lips. Dropping her gaze, she spoke, acutely uncomfortable.

"I had not eaten for nearly a week."

"Yeah, I gathered that," he said wryly. He squinted. "Are you trying to thank me?"

"I suppose…"

"Well, no need. It's all business to me, Dr. Spalko."

She considered this, a little surprised. Deal or not, she certainly wouldn't have shared with him had the situation been reversed. Spalko could see no real strategic benefit in it; she was perplexed as to his motivation. If Jones thought he could cement her allegiances so easily, he was a fool. Of course, he might have been moved by mere pity, or a need for dominance. The idea was demeaning; she liked to think of them as equals.

Irina spoke, still puzzled over the meaning of his actions. "Yes. Mere business."

* * *

_Because we have a common enemy…_

It was a legitimate enough justification, Indy mused, lacing his fingers thoughtfully. He stared at his shadow, an indistinct grey shape that stretched over the far wall. The cell was silent; Spalko had been taken for another round of questioning.

Indy sighed ruefully at his sudden change in stance. Hours earlier, he had believed that he could reason with Smith, and that this entire mess could be straightened out with little effort. Being arrested had been jarring, but he was willing to forgive and forget. He was even willing to overlook the abuses he had witnessed. It had become increasingly clear, however, that this wasn't an option.

He had taken a logical step in allying himself with Spalko. Distasteful as it was, he had worked with worse during the span of his life. Indy was, after all, a pragmatist; political considerations wouldn't stop him from looking out for himself. What still rankled was his decision to share his meal with the Soviet agent.

She hadn't deserved his sudden mood of compassion. Empathy was fine and lovely in its place, but was absurd in this situation. Indy was an innocent sufferer, while Spalko could only blame herself for her troubles. In fact, his own problems could be blamed on her, if Smith's theories were correct. But when he remembered her bloodstained face, the wolfish way in which she had devoured the bread, he felt uncertain.

At least she'd never guess his real motives; they did share an adversary, and it paid to stick together. From Spalko's dignified demeanor, he guessed that she would loathe being an object of pity. That was fine with him; Indy didn't intend to extend it to her ever again. Given Smith's methods of interrogation, he'd best save it for himself.

Indy unlaced his fingers and pushed himself upright. Springing to his feet, he began pacing, traversing the length of the cell. As he moved, he felt the restlessness begin to dissipate. He breathed deeply, concentrating on the gentle thud of his footsteps. With a final sigh, he pushed the disquieting thoughts from his head.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Hello! Thanks to everyone who read, favorited, followed and/or reviewed A Crack in the Immutable. I hope you enjoyed this chapter; feel free to tell me what you think.**


	3. Chapter 3

Indy awoke to a sudden rasp of metal on metal, as the cell door was tugged open. The hazy figure of a guard stepped into view, ducking through the door to stand directly in front of him.

"Your turn, Jones."

"Turn?" Indy asked, not bothering to stifle a yawn. He flexed cold-stiffened fingers, used a hand to push himself upright. There was a commotion at the door; the guard holstered his gun, hauling Indy to his feet.

"Smith wants to talk to you."

From the corner of his eye, Jones watched two other men push through the door, dragging Spalko between them. She looked exhausted and disheveled; at the first man's nod, the two dumped her unceremoniously on the floor. Several hours had passed since Spalko had been removed; Indy had lost track of time after dozing off. Before he could speak, the trio of guards bundled him into the hallway.

Indy struggled to keep up with the men, limping a little as he walked. Sleeping on the floor had been an uncomfortable experience; his muscles felt stiff, aching more with each step he took. As they left the cell block, he felt a vague sense of dread. Sooner or later they were going to lose patience with him; when they did, he could only expect violence. Indy only hoped that they would realize his innocence before that point.

After a short distance, the group stopped. Jones was ushered into the cavernous interrogation room, still set with the folding table and chairs. Smith sat waiting, hands clasped casually before him. His expression was unreadable; as Indy sat down, Smith made an ambiguous sound in his throat.

"Are you ready to cooperate?"

Jones hardly noticed the departure of the guards. He focused his gaze on Smith, lips curling into an ironic smile. "I already have, Colonel. If you don't believe me, that isn't my problem."

"I'm convinced that you're lying," Smith said coolly. "Aren't you ashamed, Jones? To turn your back on the United States-" his tone was indignant "—and betray the trust of those you were once eager to protect?"

Indy refused to be baited. "We've already gone over this-"

"-You're right." Smith looked away for a moment, with an exaggerated shake of his head. "That's why we'll begin using more forceful means."

"You can't scare me."

Smith raised his eyebrows skeptically in response. "This is your last chance. For now, all you need to tell me is what you know of George McHale. Habits, aliases, probable current location. Once he's in custody, we can compare his story with yours."

Indy snorted. If Mac were captured, they would torture him into a confession, guilty or innocent. He definitely didn't trust Smith to treat his friend fairly. "I'll never inform on George McHale, unless you can prove to me he's blameworthy," Indy told Smith. His voice was resolute.

"Allow me to gather the evidence. I will present it to you tomorrow; if you still resist..." Smith's expression darkened.

Indy rolled his eyes. "If you _could_ convince me, I still might not cooperate. Unless you'd promise to release me as soon as I talked."

Smith shrugged. "We could certainly arrange it. But, I would keep in mind the penalties for not 'talking.'"

"Fine." Indy thought for a moment, and added: "I'm surprised at you, Smith. An American officer, resorting to torture to achieve his ends. You disgrace your position."

For a moment, genuine uncertainty flashed in his murky eyes. Indy noted the reaction with interest. Then Smith responded, voice shaking with anger.

"I will not defend my choices to a traitor. Leave my presence." He barked for the guards; two rushed through the door, looking surprised.

"What do you need, sir?"

"Return Jones to his cell."

* * *

Indy trudged behind the guards, staring at his hands. He was ruminating over his conversation with Smith, and the agent's heated reaction to his disgust. Indy wouldn't ever consider betraying Mac; Smith couldn't produce evidence enough to convince him of his friend's guilt. Jones needed an alternate strategy to manipulate Smith, and quickly. This new vulnerability could provide the key.

As they approached the cell, however, Indy struggled to focus. Smith's threats had left a bad taste in his mouth; he had dealt with many a psychopathic individual during his life, and didn't relish trying to thwart another. Smith had seemed impatient, ready to snap. The ghastly image of his cellmate, motionless and visibly battered, flashed in his mind. Indy knew he was running out of time to strategize.

The guard fiddled with the padlocked door, then removed Indy's handcuffs with a dismissive grunt. He shunted him inside and departed. Indy leaned against the wall, rubbing at his wrists. Spalko still lay in the middle of the floor, pale and breathing shallowly. As the extent of her injuries became apparent, Indy stepped forward, a curse forming on his lips.

He remembered his earlier resolutions to mind his own business, but they seemed callous in light of her current condition. He could have no peace with himself if he simply let Spalko suffer; indeed, he would make himself complicit in Smith's misdeeds. Besides, what would it hurt? He hardly considered the fact that his compassion might seem incriminating, because he had finally given up on convincing Smith of his loyalty. If Indy wanted freedom, he would have to win it by some alternate route.

Decided, Indy knelt and whispered tentatively, "Dr. Spalko?"

* * *

The cell was too bright, glowing red before her closed eyelids. Her body felt impossibly light, and there was a curious humming in her head. The pain had subsided; for that, she was grateful. As she slowly returned to consciousness, Spalko could feel the hard floor beneath her back. It was uncomfortable, but she didn't have the strength to move.

This time, they had not bothered to ask questions. Smith had begun utilizing increasingly harsh methods of interrogation; at times, she had the feeling that he was venting his frustration with her continued reticence. The session had been especially punitive, and Spalko was almost afraid to assess her injuries. There was an ominous numbness in her limbs, the cause of which she was too exhausted to discern.

A moment later, Irina realized that she wasn't alone. Jones had returned, and was situated somewhere near the far wall, breathing heavily. She heard him mutter to himself, but felt too disoriented to discern what he was saying. An abrupt resurgence of pain drew her attention; she bit her lip to keep from crying out. With effort, she lifted a hand to dab gingerly at her face. Her fingers came back sticky with blood.

Troubled by this discovery, she dragged her eyes open. She caught a glimpse of Jones, staring down at her, brow furrowed in concern. Vaguely embarrassed by her circumstances, she tried to address him, but couldn't form the words. Her vision was narrowing, growing fuzzier. Suddenly lightheaded, she felt the room fade around her.

* * *

Spalko awoke, lying supine on her mattress. Something cold and heavy rested on her forehead; she was unable to open her eyes. Above her, she could hear a cacophony of voices in heated argument. After a moment, she recognized Jones' voice, at once measured and tense.

"-She's badly hurt. If you don't find her a medic-"

"What? This ain't no luxury hotel, Jones. You get what you get." The voice belonged to, she assumed, a guard.

Indy kept his tone even. "—she could be permanently incapacitated. It's in your interest to treat her."

"What do you care?" Another man spoke, tone angry.

"I'm a human being. Apparently, that's more than can be said of any of you…"

There was a shuffling sound, then a sharp crack as the man slapped Jones. Silence fell; she heard Jones take a deliberate breath before speaking.

"You need to find her a medic."

"We will consider it."

"In other words, _yes_." The door slammed shut before Jones could finish his sentence.

Opening one eye, she glimpsed Jones kneeling beside her, craggy features half in shadow. A faint red welt marked his cheek; his expression looked troubled. Clutching something in his hand, he stood, turning to the sink. She watched as he unfolded a blood-spotted cloth, rinsed it, and wrung it out. Once finished, he draped the cloth over the side of the sink to dry.

Returning to her side, he spoke, forehead creased. "How do you feel?"

She didn't answer immediately, discomfited by her situation. For a moment, she considered telling Jones to leave her alone. His motives remained unclear; yet, in this situation, it seemed prudent to accept his assistance. Duty came before personal pride; she needed to survive in order to escape the prison. But she could not help the remark that escaped her lips:

"Just business, is it not?" Her voice was nearly inaudible, though the effort of speaking made her dizzy.

He sighed. "Please answer me, Spalko."

"Very poor."

"Yeah, I guessed." He shook his head ruefully. "A medic should arrive soon."

He held her wrist, feeling for a pulse; his fingers were calloused and warm. Suddenly withdrawing his hand, Indy stared into her eyes, evaluating her pupil size. Finally, he nodded. "You're coming out of shock."

She blinked in response. Her sense of degradation was fading, as if she lacked the energy to keep it up. At the moment, she felt nothing beyond physical pain, and a vague obligation to repay Jones for his efforts. She had detected no condescension in his voice, only military-style efficiency. Her thoughts were jumbled and incoherent, difficult to gather. _There is a different sort of shame in ingratitude for…needed aid_, Spalko reasoned dimly. _If I find myself able to repay him, I will certainly do so…_

Beside her, Jones coughed. "You need to rest."

She made a noise of agreement, and let her eye slide shut. "I…appreciate your help," she said gruffly, the words sounding strange to her ears.

"It's no trouble."

* * *

The telephone on Smith's desktop rang piercingly, startling him. Laying his pen on the paper-strewn desktop, he answered, growling a little. "Who's calling?"

"Lieutenant Ellis, Sir. Jones summoned a guard, and is demanding that a medic be sent for the other prisoner-"

"That's ridiculous."

"She'sin poor condition, Sir. Interrogation will be impossible until she improves."

Smith sighed into the mouthpiece, and stared at the wall. It was completely blank; at one time, he had displayed pictures of his fiancée there. A few months ago, the frames had begun to bother him, and he had taken them down. Such peaceful, innocent images had seemed disturbingly incongruous with the rest of the prison. Moreover, the sight of them made him feel guilty. He hoped that his bride would never learn of the unconscionable orders he had carried out.

There - he had called them unconscionable. Smith put the bewildering thought aside, and focused on the voice of Lieutenant Ellis.

"Sir, are you still on the line?"

"Yes. Allow me to think; call again in a half-hour."

"Yes, Sir." There was a click as Ellis hung up.

A minute later, the telephone rang again. Smith answered unenthusiastically.

"Hello?"

"I have been hearing some interesting things lately, Paul. Things that we need to discuss." The voice belonged to General Robert Ross, a military officer who sometimes supervised intelligence operations. Smith had worked with him before, and had found him to be barely tolerable.

"Let's keep it brief, General."

"You have detained a close friend of mine, and I need to intervene."

"Are you authorized to do so?"

Ross ignored his question. "Henry Jones, Jr. His loyalties are unquestionable."

"Still, your assurances are not sufficient to release him."

"That is why I'm paying you a visit. Within a week, I will arrive to examine the evidence and assist in interrogation."

"General, this prison is my territory. Furthermore, you will only exacerbate the problems-"

"Don't protest; I've made up my mind. I will see you soon, Paul." Ross hung up, and Smith nearly cried out in fury. Instead, he settled on flinging his pen across the room. It hit the door with a light thump. He would need to get the evidence organized in order to present a compelling case. It wouldn't be difficult, as he had already gathered materials related to the affair for Jones' review. More troubling: Ross might report on any contraventions he saw; the prisoners needed to look reasonably healthy. Fiddling with his glasses, Smith dialed the cell block.

Ellis answered. "Yes?"

"This is Colonel Smith. I have come to a decision - you may send for a medic. Spalko is approved for all treatment deemed necessary to her physical well-being."

Ellis sounded surprised by his sudden reversal. "We'll try our best, Sir."

"See that you do. And, ask if Jones needs medical attention."

"May I inquire as to why, Sir?"

"We will be having a visitor."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Hello all! Thanks for reading Chapter Three. Sorry it took me so long to update; I've had a slight case of writers' block. As always, feel free to tell me what you think! Even a one-line review will suffice. :)**


	4. Chapter 4

Spalko sat slumped in a rickety folding chair, hands cuffed tightly before her. The interrogation room was darker than usual, and cold enough that her breath was visible in the stale air. In a chair opposite, Smith sat, paying Spalko no attention. He was conversing quietly with the officer beside him, a balding man with sparse, crooked eyebrows.

It had been almost a week since her brutal interrogation, and Irina still felt drained. Her injuries had barely begun to heal; the medic had treated her for a dislocated shoulder and several broken ribs, among other minor complaints. She had spent the past few days lying on her pallet, allowed to recover in peace.

The officer's tone grew sharper, catching Spalko's attention. "…Do as you see fit, Paul. But if Jones isn't released, I have the ability to make life difficult for you." He stared balefully at Smith, who adjusted his glasses, obviously uncomfortable.

"_I_ am responsible for this investigation. Threats will get you nowhere."

"Like I said, do as you see fit." The man gestured suddenly to Spalko. "Shall we proceed?"

Both men turned to her, and she adopted an expression of contempt. "Who is the newcomer?" she inquired bluntly.

Smith leaned forward in his chair. "Allow me to introduce you to General Robert Ross. He will be assisting in your interrogation. I am…bringing in reinforcements, so to speak."

Ross gave Smith an ambiguous look. "Yes, reinforcements." He put on an expression of pity, one Spalko did not trust. "I suspect that my colleague has been treating you badly. Well, no more of that."

She eyed his skeptically.

"If you will only help us in our investigation, you won't be harmed."

"Until the moment I lose my usefulness…" Her mouth tightened meaningfully. "I am not stupid, General."

He dropped his gaze thoughtfully, rubbing at a spot on the table. Quietly, he responded. "Then I can't be responsible for what might happen. Paul, do as you will."

Smith puckered his brow. "I always intended to, General. This _is_ my facility."

Ross slapped his palms on the table and stood. Heading for the door, he paused beside Spalko.

"You are going to regret this," he whispered bitterly. When she didn't respond, he shuffled past her and departed.

* * *

"I have discovered something very interesting." Spalko sat down carefully, eying Indy from across the room. She tilted her chin, lips curling in satisfaction.

"Hmm?" Indy ran a hand through his hair, listening with genuine curiosity. He hadn't left the cell in days, for reasons that eluded him. Only the occasional visits of a medic had interrupted the tedium. He had spent the time tending to his cellmate, and ruminating about how to outmaneuver Smith. He still hadn't found a satisfactory solution, short of escaping the facility.

Spalko continued, "A new officer accompanied Smith today, a General Robert Ross-"

"Robert Ross?" Indy felt confusion, and tentative hope. Ross was a close friend from Indy's army days, one who would certainly vouch for him.

"Yes. Before the interrogation began, Smith and Ross seemed to be quarreling. I heard Ross mention your name – I believe he was arguing for your release." Her brow creased, and she clasped her hands thoughtfully. "He also threatened Smith."

Indy's eyes widened. This was certainly an interesting development. Ross' help could allow him to secure his freedom despite Smith. His friend wielded considerable power, and would probably be willing to bring it to bear for Indy's sake. Looking soberly at Spalko, he said:

"Excellent. Ross is a good friend, and I think he'll be willing to help me."

"He sounded quite angry with Smith."

"I'm not surprised."

There was a long pause, and Spalko looked away. When her eyes returned to his, they were completely empty. "He also gave Smith permission to continue with his methods of questioning."

Indy immediately dropped his gaze, wincing inwardly. Ross was a duty-driven man, one who believed in exploiting every tool in his possession. He was also warmhearted and loyal, two traits that stood in sharp contrast to his professional persona. Indy understood the need to fulfill obligations as well as anyone; he didn't usually begrudge Ross his unpleasant duty. But now, after watching Spalko endure torture, it sickened him.

Indy was unable to verbalize a decent response. He settled for a mumbled apology. Refusing to look at Spalko, he crossed his arms and stared blankly at the concrete floor.

She answered him emotionlessly. "It has nothing to do with you, Dr. Jones."

Indy was more impressed than he cared to admit by her composure. Setting his jaw, he looked up to find her watching him. Her pale eyes were full of shadows. Changing the subject, he spoke to her. "Thanks for telling me about Ross."

"I am merely fulfilling the terms of our agreement." She nodded brusquely. "After the past few days…"

"We can consider ourselves even."

Her posture relaxed a little, although her expression remained cold. They both started as the light above them flickered, then switched off. Spalko gave a short, harsh-sounding laugh.

"I suppose that's good night, Dr. Jones."

"Yeah." He heard the rustle of plastic as she lay down; stretching out on his own pallet, he tucked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. Unsurprisingly, sleep eluded him. Staring into the cold darkness, he let his thoughts wander, contemplating what Spalko had told him. Indy felt a new tension between them, possibly because he now had a better chance of being freed. Indy did see the necessity of keeping her incarcerated; she was a Soviet spy, and could provide valuable intelligence. Still, seeing the conditions she was kept in…

When Indy finally slept, it was fitfully.

* * *

Irina was startled awake by a sudden clanging outside the cell. Stiffening, she listened intently, blinking hard. She pressed her hand roughly to her mouth, willing herself not to panic. When nothing happened, she exhaled slowly, with an involuntary shudder.

For the past week, she had been in a state of constant nervousness, no doubt experiencing the psychological effects of torture. While researching paranormal psychology in East Asia, she had studied various methods of meditation, many of which were proving useful to her in maintaining composure. Now, she simply closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. Slowly, she felt her heart rate slow, and her body relaxed a little.

Thus quieted, she still couldn't return to sleep. Lying on her side, she inspected the thin ribbon of light that spilled from under the door. Across the room, Jones snored raspingly. This reminder of his presence called to mind their earlier conversation. She was unreasonably pleased by the fact that he had been repaid for his assistance.

She still felt compelled to analyze his reaction to Ross' orders. His obvious dismay had been unexpected, and she was unsure of its source. She was certain he wasn't patronizing her. Furthermore, he surely knew that his comrade engaged in dubious practices. He could have been demonstrating an aversion to torture on ethical grounds, of course. The one explanation she refused to consider was that of simple compassion.

Irina made no distinction between compassion and condescension. If there was a true difference, it lay beyond her understanding. To her, both represented a means of achieving dominance, something she strongly resented. Spalko was willing to suffer, but always with dignity intact. Thus, she refused to accept a sentiment that deprived her of something so essential.

As the night dragged on, she continued to guess at Jones' intentions. He was a peculiar individual, more enigmatic than she had originally believed. Irina suspected that she had no real grasp of his character, beyond a few obvious traits. It struck her, how much time she spent analyzing her cellmate. She snorted at the absurdity of it, and shook her head at herself. Suddenly drowsy, she cleared her mind and shut her eyes.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks for reading, following, favorite-ing, and/ or reviewing my story! Fun fact: I wrote some of this chapter in a bar, during a football game that I didn't really want to watch. It made a pretty good place to write, actually. Anyway, feel free to leave me a review; I appreciate any sort of feedback.**


	5. Chapter 5

Indy found himself parked on a worn armchair, unrestrained, in a sunny room he'd never been in before. The air was warm, and still. There was another chair opposite him, above which was a window, fitted with panes of frosted glass. The guards had left him here with no explanation, but Indy had an idea of what was going on. Today, he would meet with Ross.

Enjoying the unexpected luxury of natural light, he hardly heard the door open. Ross stepped inside, lined face breaking into an enthusiastic smile. "Indy! How good to see you're all right!"

Indy stood up, and clasped his hand. "General. I hear you intend to intercede on my behalf?"

"We can talk business in time. Tell me, how are you feeling? They haven't hurt you?" Ross pursed his lips, looking suddenly troubled.

"Not really. _I'm_ feeling fine…" Indy's tone was pointed. "But my cellmate…"

"…Is a bit uncooperative, I hear. I can assure you, though, there _will_ be results. The sooner Spalko talks, the sooner we can clear you."

Indy felt suddenly nauseated. Sitting down, he leaned against the headrest, fists clenching in his lap. "About that…"

"Yes?" Ross hadn't noticed his friend's reaction. He took his own seat, crossing his ankles comfortably.

"Don't Smith's methods of interrogation bother you?"

Ross knitted his unkempt eyebrows, and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Indy," he said softly. "We are often called upon to make uncomfortable decisions. You, of all people, should understand that."

Indy grimaced in response. His reply made perfect sense, yet somehow didn't sit right with Indy. But, he would get nowhere by arguing. He gave a begrudging nod.

Ross turned his gaze back to Indy. "Let's move on. I think I already know the answer, but may I ask-"

"Go ahead."

"Smith claimed you've been withholding information. About an acquaintance called George McHale."

"It's true." Indy wasn't going to lie. He remained determined to protect Mac, and wouldn't betray him now.

Ross met his statement with consternation. "I intended to help you, but I'm not sure I can. What would possess you to refuse to cooperate?"

"Loyalty, General. I'm not going to sell out a friend."

"But if he's really innocent-"

"You'll still torture a confession from him. My cellmate was beaten to the point of death. How do I know you won't do the same to McHale?" Indy was suddenly furious; he leaned forward, face flushed. "I don't want to be complicit in your abuses."

"I never pegged you as a sentimentalist," Ross shook his head, more weary than angry. "You're a friend, though, so I'll still try to free you." He paused, reaching over to awkwardly pat Indy's arm. "But please, try to work with me."

Indy stared at Ross, and slowly sat back. "I will keep shielding Mac; that's non-negotiable. Otherwise, I'll do my best."

"I've put you in a terrible bind, I know. But I don't understand why you won't help yourself…"

"I already explained."

Ross got to his feet, eyes sad. "Then, Indy, you might never go free." Heading for the door, he suddenly turned. "I ordered a meal for you; it should arrive momentarily. I will see you in a few days," he finished regretfully.

"Thanks."

A few minutes later, the food arrived. Starving as he was, Indy hardly tasted it. There was a feeling of constriction in his chest, as if he were literally being crushed by the dilemmas that had been posed to him lately. Dully, he watched sunlight flicker unsteadily on the painted wall. To one side, his shadow stretched over the floor, heavy and gray. He took a forkful of whatever filled the plate, shoved it disinterestedly into his mouth.

A guard stumbled in, and ordered Indy to stand. He replaced Indy's shackles, and pointed towards the door. Without argument, Indy stepped into the hallway, lost in thought.

* * *

At the sound of footsteps, Spalko blinked lethargically and sat up. Scowling at the lingering pain in her shoulder, she stood and made her way to the sink. Pulling the rusted handle, she cupped her hands beneath the spigot. The water was freezing; she set her teeth and splashed her face.

Behind her, the door opened, and Jones entered. He barely looked at Spalko, stumbling across the cell to sink onto his pallet. Wiping her face with her sleeve, she turned to regard him.

"What came of your discussion?" she asked quietly. Jones had informed her that he expected to meet with Ross.

He slumped back, rubbing his temples. "Nothing good," he growled.

"Did he share anything that might be of interest to me?"

"Yeah, actually." His hands stilled abruptly, and he let them fall with a rueful sigh. "Ross suggested that they would be…augmenting efforts to break you."

Spalko felt a dull dread, but was careful not to react. Stepping to her mattress, she sat on its edge, nails digging into her palms. "Let them," she said tightly.

"I told them I disapproved."

"And your disapproval carries weight, yes?"

Jones smiled wearily. "Point taken."

Irina exhaled sharply and uncurled her fists, forcing away the tension. As her lucidity returned, she suddenly realized the implications of Jones' words. "And why did you feel the need to advocate for me?"

"Because it's reprehensible how they're treating you." His answer was immediate. He fixed her with an earnest look, eyes bright with conviction.

The explanation was logical; Irina was perfectly willing to attribute his stance to ethics. She tilted her head. "Adherence to principles, then?"

He gave her a look that she didn't understand. "Not exactly." He squinted. "I suppose I'm just sick of seeing you get worse than you deserve."

"And what do I deserve?"

His arms crossed. "Not this."

"I would think that your views would be in line with Smith's. He is your countryman, after all." Irina's voice was softer than she had intended.

Jones curled his lip in response. "You probably have reasons for not talking, same as I do. As an American, I'd like if you cooperated. But…" He trailed off morosely.

"You are correct. I do have…reasons, as you say." Irina was a patriot; she wouldn't even contemplate betraying the Soviet Union. The Americans could do as they wished, because she would willingly die rather than divulge secrets. Lost in brooding, she was startled by the door clanging open.

Jones whipped his head around, apparently also surprised. Smith himself appeared in the doorway, with a dour set to his jaw. His muddy eyes gleamed resolutely. Spalko flinched unconsciously, steadied herself, and put on a condescending smirk.

"What a surprise."

Smith strode forward, a threat in his eyes. With an irritated snarl, he belted her across the face, splitting her lip. She stayed upright, fixing him with a look of disgust. Her fingers went to her mouth, pressing hard to staunch the bleeding. Smith lifted his hand again, but was interrupted by a sudden clamor in the hallway. Looking over his shoulder, he redirected himself to the door and peered out.

Jones sat up on his heels, eyes flickering with uncertainty. Stealing a glance at Smith, he stood clumsily. Moving to the sink, he retrieved the cloth that hung drying over its edge. He stooped beside her and, folding it sloppily, pressed the rag into her hand. His fingers brushed her own. In the gloominess of his expression, Irina read no condescension. He gave her a soft nod, jerking his chin upwards. Irina understood immediately, and straightened her back.

"Make him pay," Jones muttered.

She gave him a sly conspiratorial smile, paying no attention to the stinging of her injury. She wiped the blood from her chin, then applied the rag to her lip. Smith caught her attention, swinging around and adjusting his glasses. Behind him, a small knot of guards stood waiting. Feeling Jones' eyes on her, Irina maintained her imperious expression. Smith crooked a finger.

"Drop the item you are holding, and stand. Immediately."

* * *

Smith found himself back in the interrogation room, already developing a migraine from the glaring fluorescent lights. Midway through another fruitless session with Spalko, he almost regretted Ross' authorization. Part of him had been hoping for reprimand and an order to cease interrogation immediately. He had been expecting, at least, to be spared the terrible necessity of his duties.

Brutality did not come naturally to Paul Smith. Outside of the prison, he was, by his own estimation, an ordinary man. He dressed respectably, attended church, and had a beautiful bride-to-be. His fiancée was a petite, sensitive woman, entirely averse to violence. When he called on her, he was always careful not to discuss his career.

It troubled Smith, this secretive, multifaceted life he led. Devotion to his country was the only thing that kept him entangled. Someone had to do the unpleasant tasks, and Smith was resigned to the fact that the job had fallen to him. Still, he was never quite at peace with himself.

Turning to his assistant, he found the man shaking an unresponsive Spalko. They had injected her with a truth serum, then continued with their usual routine, to no avail. Smith scowled and snatched a bucket of cold water from the table behind him. Gesturing for the other man to move aside, he splashed it in Spalko's face. She awoke with a sputter, blinking to clear the water from her eyes.

In a corner, Ross stood watching, lips pursed in displeasure. He came to stand beside Smith. "We're getting nowhere," he hissed in frustration. Smith nodded distractedly.

"We'll try a different chemical tomorrow."

"It had better work, Paul. This investigation has been stalled long enough."

The threat in his voice meant nothing to Smith. He _wanted _to be censured, relived of his duties and replaced. He would, of course, continue to perform as best he could; Smith couldn't abide the idea of letting his country down. But, as Smith instructed his assistant, there was no conviction in his voice.

"Give her a bit more of the serum. I want results."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Hi, guys! Thanks for sticking with A Crack in the Immutable. I just started school, as well as a new job, so expect updates to be more sporadic. As usual, make sure to leave a review! I'd really like to know your opinion.**


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